Vexation
by bleedcolor
Summary: Severus is angry with Harry. But why?


Title: Vexation  
  
Author: Batling  
  
Disclaimer: NOT MINE! (Except for the idea :D)  
  
Warnings: Implied HP/SS, don't like it? Take a hike.  
  
Summary:...read and find out!  
  
Rating: Um...low? .  
  
A/N: Enjoy!  
  
Vexation  
  
That ignorant little fool! How dare he?! What could have possessed him to do something so idiotic? From where did he summon the sheer stupidity that the deed must have taken? How could that little brat do this to me?!  
  
My hands clench tightly into the arms of my chair, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Unfortunately, I've never been easy to calm, and this time seems to be no exception. Considering that this is the angriest I've ever been it really comes as no surprise that none of my general calming techniques are working.  
  
Usually a deep breath and a quick run through the alphabet puts my anger into perspective, at least enough so that I can see through my incensed frame of mind enough not to commit bloodshed. Right now, however, is a completely different matter. I fully intend to wring Potter's neck as soon as I'm within reaching distance of the idiot.  
  
I snarl, shoving myself up from the chair. If I cannot force myself into a calm then I will weary myself into one. And so, I begin to pace furiously, moving back and forth between the fire and my chair too quickly to see much more than a shadowy, orange blur. Red and black spots are moving in at the corners of my vision and I bite the inside of my lip whilst I continue to pace to distract myself from them.  
  
My anger is so thick I almost believe I can taste it, thick and hot on my tongue. Or perhaps that is an effect of not having uttered a syllable since I heard the news, I don't think I've parted my lips in hours. If I did try to talk I know that it would all come out in a very undignified, incoherent babble and so, I would rather hold in my wrath until I can sort through it.  
  
And then, as soon as I am able I will release it all at Potter, damned brat that he is. He'll deserve every sharp word, what he has done is nearly unforgivable and he will suffer my fury for his complete idiocy. Just as soon as someone releases me from this horrid, insufferable room, I will give Potter a rather large and irate peice of my mind.  
  
I pause in my pacing and lean, just slightly, against the chair. The room spins slowly back into focus, the red and black dots recede as my teeth release my inner lip. I can taste the blood that oozes free while I simply stand and breathe harshly for a moment. Just as soon as Albus comes in and tells me whether or not... as soon as he tells me if....  
  
Damn Potter to hell. How dare he do this to me? My ire is stoked once more and again I pace, heedless of my new shortness of breath and that my lip is clenched another time between unforgiving teeth. Pain is clear enough through the angry haze I currently see through and so I bite down harder as my journey back and forth before the fire becomes more and more tumultuous.  
  
Thus I continue in a cycle, for minutes, hours, perhaps even days, moving back and forth in front of the fire. Occasionally, I pause when I've worked myself down or can no longer breathe. Eventually, however, I catch my breath or a stray thought catches me off guard and I'm off again, rage controlling my actions.  
  
Finally, finally after a decade of seconds, a century of minutes, I hear the door creak open. Whirling, I face Albus. I am certain that everything I am feeling is clearly written on my face, but for the first time in my life, I do not care. The headmaster looks at me gravely, he studies me for a few seconds that take years off of my life span. Then he smiles gently and I feel my knees weaken underneath me.  
  
"Tonight, Severus, Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort." He pauses, and I feel a shiver of hope and fear dance down my spine. "And the Boy Who Lived, lives on."  
  
As I sink into my chair, I breathe easily. He's alright. He's alive. Recovering, to be sure, but alive.  
  
"Thank God," I whisper. "Thank God."  
  
And I'm suddenly as calm and drained as I wanted to be when I was first shoved into this boxy little room. My reason for living, as Albus put it, lives on. 


End file.
